The Geranium Hotel Poems

I heard a voice come from the way What it said I could not say The words flowed clear and sang out strong Yet my mind felt confused- it felt strange- wrong. A whole year passed from when you left where did you go? What heavily lit trail did you take? A moment passed, a breath, a flicker of time And I grew old, no longer watched by the blossom on the branch I am a single man with eyes behind glass A soul who should know better than to glance behind to see his full spine bursting with memories to try and look at the vertebrae of years And to distinguish which ones hurt the most To slip them back into place amongst the dull and placated The skin on my hands it is cold The childhood wasn't bought nor sold A naked boy pissing as the storks take wing A cello leaning with its tendril, its broken string The darkness of the television sets The mere blackness from the night regrets I can't listen to the sound of embrace I won't feel the pulse of a year ...

The prettiest flower in the garden Could never match the warmest blanket in winter And I, when I am wrapped in this blanket I see colours That my eyes have stolen from this prettiest flower And I feel I am the size of a strawberry flower Yet my heart wants something the size of a hot air balloon And all I can taste is the roasts of childhood Burnt, but tasty And I want to count the syllables Written within every letter from a friend in London She has blue eyes The man I love has dark eyes I have grey eyes And there is another who also has dark eyes For every bar of music The nausea rides the ocean Like a broken pin Stuck into a champagne cork And the music never stops Like the Ocean that the cork must traverse I never like to think of my paranoia I never like to think of my childhood roasts Somewhere there is a beach Full of corks and waxy wings Slowly sinking, slowly becoming aware of the weight And the isolation And ...

Ginsberg. I am not afraid I am not afraid of your nineteen sixties television opinions I am not afraid of your twentieth century expansive heroic verse I am not afraid of your fan-mail underwear dance Your communist lover’s scissor cut Your Broom-stick-fuck publicity short story Your Lorca/Crane/Batman army reputation I am not afraid And I know I know all about Denver’s broken arm with bloody shirt I know all about your opinion of the reflection in glass I know the secret of the lion that did not eat you And I know your ego only meant sweet, sweet love And I know your beard was the soft cover for life and the universe in your arms And I know that your big fleshy 1997 man corpse was nought but a golden memory album that consisted of Corso’s days with sun on the axis of a needle, your own graveyard gifts and manic ego declarations, Orlovsky’s barefooted fecal snowflake poetry and William’s hard-boiled look and big old cock. I know of little Jean. He who pretended to be his ol...